Page 38 of The Muse
“A bastard? You’re right. I am. Always was. Now piss off back to your brother.”
The door slams in her face, all the rage fuelling it to rattle the bloody hinges so dramatically it might knock the fucking building down. The hammering starts just as quickly as the last time I shut it in her face, enough noise that I can’t even begin to think straight and find some sense.
I pull it open again and grab her arm, yanking her so harshly she cries and screams the entire way down the flights of stairs.
“Scott! Please,” she whimpers, tripping down the steps. “You’re hurting me.”
Hurting her? She’ll understand what that really means in a minute if she doesn’t give me some space. What does she think? I’m going to listen to more lies about who she is and what she was ever doing here in the first place? Let her hammer on my door until she finds another way to get information out of me? Stupid. But I suppose that’s what I get for even thinking about something good and honourable in my life. Innocence? Fuck me. What a bloody fool I’ve been. I should have known, should have listened to my gut and just used her for the painting. Instead, I took the virginity offered, cherished it even in my own way. He probably knew about that, too, made her give it up as a way in.
“Selling your virginity was stupid,” I mutter. It was. Really fucking dense. “Especially to a bastard like me. But thanks, I had fun with it.”
The main door opens, and I push her through it, less than no bloody care about the way she half tumbles out of it and down the steps. She falters on the last one, her hands going to the ground to stabilise herself.
“Go home, Persephone Broderick. You and your lies aren’t wanted here.” She stands and looks up at me, her mouth opening and her fingers trying to clear the tears away.
“Please, Scott," she implores, rubbing her wrist.
I glower at both her, the passers by watching the show, and the thought that I've caused her pain. I shouldn't care about that. Not in the slightest. And damn my bitter heart for feeling at odds with what I just did to her skin.
“Just leave, Seffi. Go. We're done.”
Sneering at fucking everything, I back away into the foyer again. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing left to bother looking at either, and the sound of the door slamming again should prove it enough that even deceitful little madams understand the meaning it signifies.
My back slumps against the wall, eyes closing as I try calming myself down. It doesn’t work, and by the time I’ve given myself a few minutes to get up the stairs and back into my flat, all sorts of thoughts are winding me up, even more than I was before. I pace the floor, hands on my head as I try to work out which piece of this I need to tackle first.
Landon?
The paper?
The contract that my father’s already signed?
My hands drop from my skull, eyes glaring at the screens—the fucking painting.
Yanking open the screens, I scowl at it taking pride of fucking place on the easel. Lies. All lies.
And now this painting is a damned lie, too. It’s fraudulent as if there’s no veracity in it anymore. No innocence either.
The thought makes me swallow down all kinds of emotion, somehow hoping to avoid the real possibility that I need to destroy it before it changes my mind about reality. I do, though. I need to slash it. Or burn it. Or perhaps throw it out of the fucking window so it doesn’t cloud my judgement about whatever the hell this has all been.
I’ve grabbed at a knife before I’m thinking sensibly enough to consider my actions, body hovering four feet away from the fucking thing. I should just do it. Let all this anger and temper rip into something that deserves it. Thank God I managed to keep most of my ire off her actual skin because that could have caused more damage than I've already inflicted. The shame of it is, I can already feel my hand resisting moving forward because of that thought, my body anchoring me to the spot.
My hand, my art—her body.
Fuck.
Slinging the knife to the floor in yet more temper, I storm away from it and grab my keys instead. Maybe running will help ease the betrayal, especially if I run straight in the direction of Broderick headquarters and give Landon a piece of my fist.
Fucking arsehole.
I’m out the door and running down the stairs before I know it, every part of my frame primed for a fight. Thank fuck she’s nowhere to be seen as I start striding out full tilt towards town. Plenty of other people are, though. They get in my way the entire journey, hustling and bustling around in their usual manner at the weekend. I dodge and weave, occasionally barging into someone because I don’t give one fuck about manners at the moment.
I cross the bridge and end up running in the road rather than dealing with other people, my body merging with traffic to get me where I need to go. More streets pass by in a blur, all of them nothing but a route to cut through. The only thing in my head, and the only thing that means anything at the moment, is Landon fucking Broderick and whatever the hell he’s been playing at.
I’m so ready to kill by the time I actually arrive at the offices, that I pace for a minute to get my breath. What a bunch of wankers—her included. Fuck Broderick shite and Broderick rules of negotiations. Pissing on my father is bad enough, but trying to play with me? Using her to get to me? Way beyond acceptable. And in my home? That’s a new fucking low even for them.
Glaring up at the tower of a glass building, I storm forward and into the revolving doors. Utter silence greets me, only the quiet voice of a receptionist talking somewhere. I look around, searching for a lift to get me up to, presumably, the top floor. That’s where they’ll be. At the top. Lording it over their subordinates without the slightest interest about what’s below them unless they can use it effectively. I’m not below them, and nor is our paper. It’s more than anything they could ever be. It’s heritage and years of hard graft. Blood, sweat and tears keeping it strong even in its weakened state.
“Can I help, Sir?” the receptionist asks.
